The Sixth Day

by Catherine Coulter

  Gareth said, “The garage is beneath the building, so he lucked out that no one was around to see anything.”

  Mike turned to the landlord. “Can you give us all the information you have on Dr. Marin?”

  “Already did, to this gentleman here.” He shook his head. “Poor lady, whatever happened—well, sure, she’s been a good tenant, her boyfriend, too, both on the lease.”

  “Here, Mike,” Gareth said, and handed her a file.

  Mike said, “I see Isabella is American, from Florida, works at the British Museum.”

  The landlord was shaking his head. “Both of them, nice kids, quiet, rent’s on time, paid in full. Mr. Brooks travels. He’s a photographer for the Globe. Nature, war, that kind of stuff. What’s wrong with people?”

  Gareth asked Mike, “Any emergency contacts on the paperwork?”

  “Looks like a three-eight-six area code and the name Nadia Marin. That’s Florida. We’ll have to get in touch as soon as we know what’s happened.”

  “Pretty clear to me,” the landlord said, and now the man once short on words, spewed. “Mr. Brooks’s been murdered, right here in my building! And poor Dr. Marin’s been kidnapped. Who would do this? A maniac, I know it’s some crazy. Do something.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Mike stepped into the hallway and called Nicholas. “You answered your cell so you’re alive. What did the doctor say?”

  “I’m fine, Mike, it’s just a flesh wound.” He paused, and she could see his grin, then, “Don’t worry. Talk to me.”

  “Gareth verified there was, to the best of his knowledge, a falcon spotted on the windowsill of the apartment. He interviewed the man himself who saw it. Penderley asked him to.”

  “Which brings to mind Roman Ardelean.”

  “Unfortunately, the video we saw did show a man coming in and dragging Isabella Marin out, but it wasn’t Ardelean.” She gave him the description of the man, told him about the two puncture wounds in Gil Brooks’s neck. “But he wasn’t exsanguinated, Nicholas, not like the Vampire Killer, or Dracula, Interpol is looking for.

  “The man—who isn’t Ardelean—hauled the woman away, probably downstairs to the apartment garage. Nicholas, she looked like she’d been drugged or smacked hard. She works at the British Museum. I’m heading there right now. Oh yes, Gareth says hello.”

  “Hello back to him. Now, Barstow has called Ardelean three times, and he’s not answering. We’ve sent a team to watch over the Belgravia flat. Adam is looking for any possible addresses for Ardelean outside of Belgravia, and so far we’re coming up blank. We may start tapping into CCTV and see what we can find from yesterday. Ardelean had to come to us from somewhere, perhaps we can follow him back out.”

  “Was he driving or walking?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Remember the article you showed me about the Internet of Things and how easy it is to hack someone’s personal information out of the devices they’re using for their home and for their car? You said it was possible to hack into a car’s GPS system and see addresses. If you can find his car, maybe you can find an address that way.”

  “Mike, you are brilliant. We’ll get on it right away. We have to find his car, obviously, but they’ll have a record of its make, model, and vehicle registration plates in the parking garage.”

  “Glad to help. Why hasn’t MI5 released his information to the media?”

  “My father wants to capture Ardelean quietly. It won’t do for the public to get wind of his and Barstow’s actions. We’re talking a big scandal in the government, not good.”

  “Barstow set the train wreck in motion, and now people are dead. They won’t be able to cover it up forever.”

  “I agree, but this isn’t my call. We will certainly go public if we need to, but for the moment, since Ardelean has means to flee the country and disappear, we want to try to keep this quiet. If he is as unstable as Barstow claims, and it goes public, he might retaliate with more attacks.”

  “I’m off to the British Museum. Nicholas, you’ll find him. Have faith.”

  “Will do. You keep me up to date, as well. And, Mike? Be careful. If Ardelean gets wind of us looking for him, I don’t think he’ll hesitate to come after us again. If he knows where you are—just be careful.”

  Nicholas hung up with Mike and started typing again. Adam had imported all the CCTV feed from the surrounding area, and Nicholas had tapped into the garage system so he could pull up the car and registration plate. All the while, the back of his mind was spinning.

  Who was Roman Ardelean?

  “Ben, do me a favor. Find Ardelean’s history, his whole backstory. We’re missing something here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  There are around 2,000 people with severe haemophilia A in the U.K. A hereditary genetic condition dominantly affecting men, people with severe haemophilia A have virtually none of the protein factor VIII, which is essential for blood to clot. It puts those affected at risk of excessive bleeding even from the slightest injury, as well as causing spontaneous internal bleeding, which can be life-threatening. . . . [T]here is no cure.

  —MedicalXPress.com

  Radu watched from the window as Roman strode down to the dock.

  He could tell things were unraveling, had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. All the work they’d done, all the planning, the years of searching, and they’d finally found the person who could cure him. But Roman was unstable now, furious and impatient, and betrayed, so betrayed, by the man he’d thought was his friend—and Radu had believed was his friend, as well—Caleb Temora. And what of Barstow, once his trusted partner?

  Iago came to the window with him. “I will let the cast out to follow him. They always calm him.”

  “What do we do, Iago? I’m afraid for him.”

  “We trust in him, wholeheartedly. He is the last hope for you, for this family. He has never wanted anything more than to see you well, to see you cured. You must have faith, Master Radu. And you should speak with the woman. She knows things in the way Roman does, knows Romanian, knows the ways of our people. If it is her blood that will cure you, you need to establish her trust.”

  Radu glanced at Isabella Marin. She was staring at the ceiling, unblinking. Iago was right, but speaking with other people frightened him. But at least she could both speak and understand his mother tongue.

  “Go, Master Radu, go, you must.”

  He crossed the room and sat next to her. He didn’t look at her, but he said in Voynichese, “Our people have been subjugated for years. Feared. Misunderstood.”

  “Our people?”

  “Vampires.”

  Isabella looked up at him. She hadn’t realized before, she’d been too frozen with fear, but now she saw this twin was ill, very ill, and he was uncomfortable with her. Because she was a woman? Or because he wasn’t comfortable with people? Now he believed he was a vampire? She said, her voice flat, “You’re a man, not a vampire.”

  “I am a descendant of Vlad Dracul, and I think you are, too. I come from an illegitimate line of men who are drawn to blood. This blood disorder runs in the family. It always appears in the twins. One has it, and one does not. One twin is strong, the other weak. You have no idea what it’s like, either.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There’s a burning inside me. It’s hard to explain, but it’s there, always there. Roman and I have experimented with so many ways to transfuse, even drinking the blood of possible matches, as the legends say. Nothing has worked to heal me, but it’s kept me alive much longer than any of my predecessors. Of course, I’ve been developing new treatments for years. None have benefitted me, but we do share them with the world. I’ve saved countless lives.”

  “You’ve killed people before me to take their blood?”

  Radu said simply, “It is the only way. Roman researches and selects Romanians who seem possible, he brings me their blood, and we experiment.”

  Isabella couldn’t help her
self. “I know you are ill, that you are afraid of dying, but so am I. So was the man I was supposed to marry, yet your twin murdered him, in cold blood, for no higher reason than he was there! And all the other people your brother has murdered for their blood? Do you believe your life is more important than theirs? Than mine?”

  “Roman says I cannot die, I am too valuable to humanity. Every human we sacrifice is to provide me longer life to continue with my work. This man with you last night, he wasn’t really all that important, now was he?”

  If only she could have leaped on him, killed him with her bare fists. He believed what he’d said as he believed his brother, utterly. Another tack then. Isabella said, “Surely you must know by now I’ve been missed. My employers will have reported my absence to the police.”

  He shrugged. “It is nothing to us. Roman has eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You think I’m lying? Our software is on every computer that matters. We can look into any of them, at any time. We own you. We own the government. We own the world.”

  “And yet here you are, locked away, shuttered inside these rooms, unable to leave, or love. I think the world owns you.”

  He shrugged. “Who needs to move in the real world? It’s dirty and cruel. I live in cyberspace. I live in the crevasses most people forget. When they stopped worshipping in churches and started worshipping their screens, I became their god.”

  “Like your brother, you are mad.”

  “I am far from mad. I told you: I’ve spent my life looking for a cure for this affliction, my family affliction. So many generations with twins, one strong, one weak. How did you really come by the pages, Isabella?”

  “You heard everything I said to your brother. It’s all true.”

  “It is not. We both know you’re lying.” He walked to the far counter. He brought the loose pages back to her. “Tell me where you got the pages.”

  She saw the pages, knew his brother had stolen them from their lead box in her bedroom. She was shaking her head.

  “Tell me.” He held the pages close to her. She couldn’t bear it. The pages were singing, speaking to her, they wanted her. No, they wanted him, too—they wanted Radu. She said nothing. He said, “The pages speak to you, don’t they? And that is why you put them in the lead box. They do to me, too.”

  “What do they say?”

  “They tell me things. And they cry for the rest of the book. You’re not mad, Isabella. If you’re worried I’ll think you’re crazy, I know you’re not. The pages are special.”

  She took a deep breath. “The pages were in my mother’s keeping. I was the strong twin, my sister the weak. Did she have the affliction? She died before it was known. But she heard the pages, too. My mother saw the pages upset me. And one day, soon after my sister died, she buried them so I wouldn’t hear them anymore.

  “I found the pages after she died.”

  “That is not the whole truth, Isabella.” Radu shrugged. “We can control so little in our lives, but through the Voynich we’ve gained unimaginable knowledge. It gave you power, didn’t it? Gave you precious knowledge no one else had? And in the back of your mind when you studied and deciphered, you knew you wanted greatness.”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  But they both knew she was lying.

  The rapid PCR—polymerase chain reaction—machine testing Isabella’s DNA started to beep. Radu’s heart leaped into his throat. The printer kicked in with a mechanic whir, and a single sheet of paper slipped out.

  He rushed across the room, held the scroll up to the light. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was everything they’d hoped for, for so long.

  He shouted in English, “She’s a match. Iago, she’s a perfect, exact match. Get Roman in here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The British Museum

  Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury

  London

  The entrance of the museum reminded Mike of the Parthenon, with its huge columns presided over by a triangular frieze. The massive courtyard was full of people; tourists and students, many segregated into groups with leaders, speaking different languages—a polyglot babble of voices.

  Inside the glass doors was another large courtyard with walls painted a calming shade of green, lined with marble busts of Roman leaders. She wondered if they were replicas like they’d seen in Italy, with the real pieces stashed away where thieving hands couldn’t steal them.

  The interior was stunning under a clear honeycombed metal roof, the huge white cylinder in the center.

  Mike saw a young woman with a blond bun and glasses approaching her, saw the woman had been crying. How much had Ian told her?

  “You’re the investigator from Scotland Yard? Please come with me.”

  Mike didn’t bother to correct her, or show her creds. She followed her deeper into the museum, past the gift shop, past the donation box signs Mike read as they passed—The British Museum, free to the world since 1753.

  There was a private elevator behind the stairs, staff only, Mike saw. The woman pressed the elevator button.

  When the elevator doors shut on only the two of them, it was suddenly eerily silent. The woman turned and said, brow arched, “You’re not Scotland Yard.”

  “You’re right. Special Agent Michaela Caine, FBI.” She pulled out her credentials, flipped them open. “What gave me away?”

  “The gun. Plus, none of our Scotland Yard detectives have quite your style. I like your motorcycle boots.” She put out her hand. “I’m Phyllis Powers, Dr. Wynn-Jones’s personal assistant, have been for almost ten years now. What’s happened to Isabella?”

  “We’re here to find out. I see you’re upset.”

  “Yes, of course I’m upset. Everyone is horrified at Gil’s murder and her kidnapping. It’s too much, simply too much, and no one knows what’s going on.”

  The doors opened, and Mike followed Powers down the hallway, up the stairs, and down another, smaller corridor.

  Mike smelled the familiar, comforting scent of tea, and, sure enough, inside the office, there was a pot waiting. “Persy had to jump into a meeting, but he’s given me permission to share all we have, to help in any way. Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Phyllis poured tea into a souvenir mug from the gift shop with BRITISH MUSEUM stamped on the side and handed it over. “Sugar, milk?”

  “This is fine. I’m going to get right to it. We need as much information about Isabella Marin as you can provide—what she was working on, who her friends were.”

  Phyllis Powers said very simply, “Isabella is a sweetheart, exceptional, frighteningly brilliant. She’s been working here for almost a year now, and she’s been a huge asset to Persy. She also had her first presser this week, on the newly discovered Voynich pages. It is ridiculous to think someone inside the community would attack them, but she was on television and all over our media resource page. Some disturbed person must have seen her and decided—”

  “Hold up, did you say the Voynich?”

  “Yes, I did. Isabella is a Voynich scholar. Finding the lost pages was a huge break for her, the kind that makes careers.”

  “How did she find pages of the Voynich?”

  “She was in the ancient Rome archives, archiving a shipment of books. She pulled a book from the box, the quires fell out. An amazing coincidence.”

  “Yes,” Mike said, thinking about Ben and Melinda, “that surely is an amazing coincidence. What book were the pages in?”

  “Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Surely you understand this is a once-in-a-lifetime discovery.”

  “Would Isabella normally be cataloging books?”

  “Not normally, no, but this was a priceless collection that came in from a major collector. It needed the utmost care, and she offered. Wait, are you saying you think Isabella planted the quires?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Mike’s phone beeped. She glanced at the screen. A tex
t from Gareth.

  Big surprise! We have the murder on video. The crime scene crew found a small camera hidden in the kitchen. We guess Gil Brooks was taping the engagement. My tech ran it. Sending screenshot of the suspect now.

  A photo scrolled in, an almost perfect profile shot of a man with sandy hair, a beard, and glasses, his black eyes dead in the pixels. Mike felt a punch to the gut looking at the vicious smile on his face. Wait, there was something about the profile that looked familiar to her.

  Mike turned the phone around.

  “Ms. Powers, do you know who this is?

  Mike watched Phyllis pale. “No, it’s not possible. How could it be? I mean, that’s Dr. Laurence Bruce.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Mike called Gareth Scott immediately.

  “The murderer’s name is Dr. Laurence Bruce. I’m putting you on speaker with Phyllis Powers, Dr. Wynn-Jones’s personal assistant. He’s Isabella’s boss. I’m hearing all this for the first time, too. Please, Phyllis. Go ahead.”

  “He’s a colleague of Persy, I’m sorry, Dr. Wynn-Jones. He’s a Voynich scholar, always around when discoveries are made. He’s multipublished, well known in the field. He was one of the first calls we received on Tuesday after the announcement. He was in town, as I recall, wonderful timing for him, as he’s based in Rome. He came to see the manuscript and spoke at length with Isabella.”

  Gareth said, “Please tell me you have cameras, Ms. Powers.”

  “I’m sure security at the museum would be happy to help. Shall I take Agent Caine to them?”

  “Yes, and thank you for being such a help. We’ll be in touch. Mike?”

  Mike turned off the speakerphone and put her cell to her ear.

  “Hey.”

  “This is quite a break. Let’s get as much information about this man as possible and figure out where he is. If we can find that, we might have a chance to save Isabella Marin’s life.”

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get my people working on his Rome connections. Keep me apprised.”